But the thing is, when it comes to beer, I’m boring. I have Plebian tastes. I’m like a person in a restaurant-sampling club that constantly wants to go to McDonald’s.

Restaurant Club member #1: Next week we should sample some Malaysian cuisine.

Restaurant club member #2: That sounds fun, but I’d really like to try that new Somali restaurant everyone’s talking about.

Me: You know the fries at McDonald’s are always fucking delicious. We should totally go there.

When it comes to beer I’m a creature of habit. I want that redundant experience. I want the same taste, I want the same flavor. I’m not looking for the next great summer wheat ale brewed in a virgin’s slipper high atop Mount Beeralvania.

That said, much like wine (which I never drink), it doesn’t stop me from learning a bit about different beers or from wanting to understand the differences, the nuances, the complexities and varieties out there. I’m interested.

I know I’ll never be anything close to an expert, and who cares.

Which leads me to Germany and the multitude of different beers this part of Europe offers. They got everything from boring pilsners, to smoked beers to the strongest strongest beer in Germany. I’ll give them all a try.

We moved here in 2007. Almost immediately upon arrival I began to hear about something magical brewing in Bavaria. A beer that was only available in certain parts of the region. It was dark in color, yet somehow light in taste. It left you refreshed while somehow seeming to be thick. It cured cancer, blindness and, if applied directly to the genitals, could issue in an era of world peace.

It was good stuff, or so I’m told. I’m a lazy fucker when it comes to my taste in beer remember?

Winkler Bräu it’s made from the tears of beautiful virgins or something …

It’s called Winkler Bräu and among a certain set of Americans here in Germany, its a legend.

Soon, among almost any group of Americans I worked with, a business or pleasure trip to Bavaria automatically meant you were obligated to bring back Winkler Bräu. It was as if you were mandated from a higher-power. Should you make the 3.5-hour trip one way, it was your job to return everyone’s empty racks of Winkler Bräu and bring back full ones. Failure to do such was an affront to all that was good and just in the world.

I’ve literally stopped on the way home, tired after a long business trip, and Googled the nearest location that carried it. Sometimes I would end up driving miles out of my way to secure the many racks of beer I was expected – nay, mandated by God – to return with.

Bringing back Winkler Bräu is just that important. Forgetting a rack of 20 beers for a buddy can end friendships, wars have or should have been fought over it. You just don’t fuck around when it comes to bringing home the golden nectar.

Because my wife loves it too I picked up a case for her when I was there last week and when I heard a friend was going this week, I dutifully passed on the EUR 20 necessary to purchase another case. Because apparently you just can’t have enough Winkler Bräu in stock.

And again I don’t even drink it, I just understand that people love it.

Turn to this week. One of my co-workers has something called the “internet.” I don’t really know what that is or what it does, but he seems to have a fine command of it.

During the exchange of euros with those fortunate enough to travel to the promised land in search of Winkler Bräu, he belts out the following:

“Hey, you know that they sell that shit right down the street right? Look right here on Google. You just punch in your address and it shows you where they sell it. They sell it right next to my house, why do you all drive four hours to get it?”

I used to think the following fact about me was weird: I gamble and when I win, — win big mind you — I give the winnings to my wife.

I used to think that most dudes (even ladies) when winning large pots kept their mouths shut when it came to their spouses. Hell, maybe some do, but the more I hear gamblers talk, the more I realize that we tend to share our winnings with our loved ones.

Think about every lottery winner you’ve ever heard talk about what they plan to do with the money.

No one ever says, “Fuck everyone else, I’m keeping all this shit!”

No one does that. It’s all “I’m going to buy my mom and dad the house they’ve always wanted, my wife’s getting her dream vacation and I’m totally having sex with three strippers.”

At least that’s what I’d say.

I bring this up because of two things. First I had a good night conning a bit of luck out of lady luck and second because my wife is insane.

Ding, ding, ding … yet I’m still moping floors …

I was $40 into my bet when I won $630. That’s what I call a “walk away moment.” I don’t care if my drink is still fresh. I don’t care if I just arrived at my game of chance,. I don’t care if the lady next to me is hot, naked and offering me a hand job if I’ll just play a bit more. A return like that is one I have to cash out immediately.

Makes sense right?

I gamble. I enjoy it. Like all gamblers I also have days that I don’t win. Those suck. My rule is pretty simple. Never lose more than $200 and any winnings of $200 or less don’t get reported to the boss.

Actually it’s simpler than that. I play until I’ve had one beer and then quit. Up or down, my rule is one beer and out.

So, there I am Monday $40 into the bet and a half a beer left and shit got real. I was suddenly $630 ahead. Clearly, it was time to quit.

Quit I did.

As I still had half a beer to finish, a fat wallet and time to kill I texted my wife, with a photo of the winnings. Prior to this, we had a deal that I would mop the kitchen floor when I got home that night and I asked, along with the photo of my winnings, if I still had to mop the floor.

She asked how much I had won.

I told her.

She said, “It’s not a grand so yes you do.”

Quickly I queried three female friends of ours about this dilemma. One replied, “You would not have to mop the floor tonight.” One said she, “I would mop the kitchen floor naked for that kind of cash,” and the third wisely ignored me for a while and mocked me several hours later.

In my head I was stuck. Dagmar, as I’ve mentioned before, likes to squirrel away in shoe boxes (despite a robust and healthy banking infrastructure) cash for vacations, rainy days and emergencies. This bounty would be a hefty addition to her 1930-era investment plan.

Also, I didn’t want to mop the fucking floor.

I called her on the drive home.

Me: Hey, that was a nice win, huh?

Her: It was, awesome.

Me: I can give you 630 reasons why I shouldn’t have to mop the floor tonight.

Her: Whatever, look I’m busy.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

We hung up and I took that to mean that at least for the next 24 hours I was mop-duty free. I mean, $630 has to count for something.

Assuming you’re still with me on this tirade, however, you may have already guessed the outcome.

No, I didn’t mop the floor, but the second phrase out of my wife’s mouth after, where’s the money, was “Why didn’t you mop the floor?”

Next week I’ll go out on a limb and say Adolf Hitler was kind of a dick and that I’m fairly certain Charles Manson didn’t like cute kittens because he was also a dick.

This, as you have guessed, is about Castro’s suicide in a Cleveland prison Tuesday night. It’s also about why I’m not happy about his suicide, why I’m tired of hearing “Christians” say “rot in hell” about how why his suicide wasn’t much a tax savings after all.

It’s about all these things because I really, really, really wanted that asshole to rot in jail for the rest of his life.

So I’m not happy he’s dead.

You see, I’m a filthy atheist.

So, according to my beliefs (and that’s all they are, no one really knows after all) dead means you cease to exist. No more thought, no afterlife, no internet porn, no beer, nothing.

You simply no longer exist. With that in mind I think Ariel gave us a final “fuck you” before ending the suffering he deserved. I’m shocked the Ohio state prison system didn’t keep a better watch on him but I understand not every prisoner can be monitored 24/7.

Still, his suicide was a final middle-finger salute to each and every one of us. Make no mistake, it was. There are also three young ladies out there that it might be more of an issue with as well.

There seem to be two crowds commenting around this asshole. The “Rot in hell crowd” and the “Tax-dollars saved crowd”.

Both are fucked and here’s why.

The Rot in hell.

… or don’t. Whatever

OK, you Christians have it a bit easier when it comes to this after-death stuff. For us atheists it’s pretty cut and dry. Not for you folks though. And that’s pretty cool. You way of thinking is if you’re good you get to party with Jesus and all the angles, and if you’re bad Satan forces you to watch reruns of Malcolm in the Middle or some shit (I’m not up on my modern interpretations of hell I admit).

So let me just propose a hypothetical to you. I think we can all agree that Castro died of asphyxiation right? There’s no way that jail cell had enough room for him to snap his neck. Asphyxiation takes a bit of time? Up to six minutes, it seems, three of which you are likely to remain conscious. So what if, as he slowly suffocated, his last coherent thought was, “Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I accept you into my heart even though I am unable to reverse the sin of suicide I repent my actions throughout my life,” or whatever.

My point is — what if at the last moment he accepted Jesus into his heart truly and he regretted what he had done.

He’s in heaven then right? Admit it, if the above is true he’s there with the lord right now.

And you’re not, neener neener.

Again, I don’t believe in either heaven or hell but you’ve got to love a system where a last minute “Sorry I fucked up,” thought is a get out of jail free card. Try that with your boss at work and let us know how it works!

Let’s say that didn’t happen or maybe it did and Jesus looked on Facebook and Twitter and saw all the rot in hell comments and thought, “Nope, fuck this asshole. Off to hell you go.”

Well isn’t the bible littered with shit about judging? Isn’t that shit kind of shitty, according to the big man? He’s all like, “Look humans I’ll do the fucking judging ’cause I made all of you so you all just chill, OK.”

… see, it’s in a cartoon!

No really, that’s what it’s all about … don’t fucking judge people. When a person’s immortal soul is on the line and you weigh in with “burn in hell” well you’re fucking judging. You are. Saying someone deserves to rot in hell is judging.

Look I don’t believe in an invisible-omnipresent person in the sky, but if I did I’d fucking leave the judging to him for fuck’s sake. He, she, it knows everything! I can’t fucking figure out how they seal up a can of beer. Maybe you’ve got it all figured out, but me, I realize I’m not even half as smart as something called “God” and leave that eternal damnation shit to it.

Let me ask you this. We’re all friends here, right? If we were both in line for coffee and I asked you for a nickel you’d give me one right? Hell, I’d flip you one if the situation were reversed. It’s a nickel really, and at the end of the day, what’s a nickel?

I think my tax dollars should be used for this type of prison! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ohio’s budget in 2011 was about 26 billion. That’s a lot of money. The cost to house a lifetime inmate in 2012 in Ohio was … wait for it … About $20,000 per year. That’s way less than the average family giving me a nickel once a year.

Yeah I know! Look it up, it’s true. It’s the state budget equivalent of your family budgeting my needing a nickel for coffee every year, once a year, for the next 40 years. That’s basically like you and I paying $2 dollars over that amount of time to make sure the fucker suffers, and let me tell you, I’m in on this one. That’s a good use of my tax dollars. Hell, I’d proudly pay that just to make sure that fucker rots. In a cell. Forever.